


into the heart of the stomach

by entremelement



Series: nomenclatures [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Brazil, Canon Compliant, Flower metaphors, Fluff and Angst, Haikyuu!! Manga Spoilers, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, actual flowers in here too, lots of food too, on rituals respect and getting into the heart of things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:53:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24686443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entremelement/pseuds/entremelement
Summary: You remind me of all good things about Brazil.Atsumu, breaching what Shoyo has found familiar, squints at him through their shared reflection.Hope none of them are about someone else, then.Atsumu tries to embrace rituals and reverence for things unspoken as he gets into the heart of things.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Miya Atsumu, Hinata Shouyou/Oikawa Tooru
Series: nomenclatures [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1833325
Comments: 14
Kudos: 179





	into the heart of the stomach

**Author's Note:**

> Was originally supposed to upload this for AtsuHina Day 6 prompt: Flowers but, well, I’m late anyway, and the themes don’t quite converge well in this fic so let’s upload it on Day 7: free prompt! Lmao.
> 
> Be fairly warned: this fic includes heavy-handed flower metaphors, waxing poetic about hunger, implied OiHina in Brazil!!! & Atsumu discovering, re-discovering and breaching the (un)familiar.

There is a way to map out a state of being sated. Shoyo has mastered it with utmost reverence.

Atsumu finds it unexpectedly, in Shoyo’s eyes, a hunger willed into existence when a left hand meets the ball. Shoyo thrives in it--taking unfamiliarity into his hands, preparing a banquet for himself. 

Atsumu didn’t lie when he thought all his spiker’s points are _his,_ too. But Shoyo, he thinks, is starving for the ball itself—to feel the momentary numbness when he slams it down, to devour.

When Shoyo gets the ball in, the linesman watching in full view, there are no signals to be sent out. 

It lands squarely in the middle, a reverberating sign of failure. None of them quite expected a southpaw strike, not even the Jackals; the Adlers’ eyes trail the ball bouncing off the court, helplessness evident.

 _Thank you for the meal,_ Atsumu silently prays, as Shoyo floats downwards and lets gravity have its way with him, ever so gently.

* * *

“Oh, did Kita-san send some jasmine tea your way, too?” Atsumu palms the ceramic, almost scalding when he peers at his reflection on the viscous brown of it. It’s ethereal when eyes reflect the light that likewise reflects on the tea. In his eyes, a portal of luminous possibilities.

“No, that one’s from the nearby _konbini._ ” Osamu plainly remarks. Atsumu lifts his gaze to observe his brother’s quiet determination. 

“Who had the craziest idea to make a flower into tea, anyway?” Atsumu half-thinking, remarks, puncturing the silent looming veil upon them. Osamu flinches before his lips turn upwards into an absurdly huge smirk. A mug is set down just behind the counter, elbows on the wood finish, his black cap taken off. The yellow of sodium lamps bouncing off his newly-dyed black mop. “You enjoy it anyway, ‘Tsumu.”

“Oh, I do,” Atsumu throws his words around a little too recklessly, “I’m just wondering aloud. Who thought that ‘ _hey, this flower could taste great’_ and just threw some in the pot?”

“First of all, how stupid are you--”

“Answer the damn question, ‘Samu. I know you oughta educate me on this.” 

And then laughter erupts from Osamu, drowning out the chorus of crickets outside. “Jasmine’s—it’s night-blooming. You can catch a whiff of it from a block away.” Atsumu, dumbfounded at the start of Osamu’s sentence, runs a hand up his nape, feeling prickly new hairs. “It’s for that reason that _green tea_ is flavored with jasmine.” Osamu matches Atsumu’s raised eyebrows with a subtle furrowing of his own. “It’s not actually the flowers in the tea--it’s still green tea, just spread with jasmine. Left to dry and absorb. So that the scent, the flavor--it sticks to the green tea.” 

“Ah, so I’ve been duped!” He pauses to raise the ceramic, eyeing its rough underside, as if more answers are bound to come out of it. Of course, there are none. “This is just green tea!”

“There are no ‘ _justs’_ in food, ‘Tsumu, remember that.” Osamu’s voice bears sudden gravitas. “Always eager to reduce something, to compartmentalize it, huh?” He refrains himself from starting a sibling war and decides that the best move would be to turn his back on Atsumu, now mildly confused.

Atsumu thinks long and hard on it—compartmentalizing? Was that how he’d done things over time? Setting aside certain things, refusing to take gray—only black and white. Reducing everything into a matter of this or that. Just now— _this is just green tea that smells like jasmine._ That’s what it is, Atsumu ponders. On a sweltering but rainy day, air thick with petrichor, there is only rainy. Not sweltering, not humid, _rainy._

“Food,” Osamu slings the dishcloth on his shoulder, the white of it marking a definite spot against his dark uniform. “Goes into the heart of the stomach, unexpected.”

* * *

It comes so suddenly, at a gut-wrenching pace, when Shoyo talks about Brazil. 

Atsumu holds his gaze on Shoyo. They’re in a bus, only 15 minutes short of the Sendai City Gymnasium, when he begins. He visualizes him a sunburnt wonder, reckless in his steps, trailing sand wherever he goes. The diamonds strewn on the clear blue, taken in by his equally bright eyes. Sees him, arm slung around Pedro’s shoulders, attempting to get the roommate out of the house for a healthy dose of vitamin D. Brushing sand off the fabric of his board shorts as he awaits sunrise, that which bounces off his face as he’s in peaceful meditation.

A lot of stories to be told by Shoyo, some soft, and some he’d rather not listen to.

When his grin takes an embarrassed, eyes averting, bottom lip-biting turn at the mere mention of _Oikawa-san_ , whoever the heck he is, Atsumu knows not to let this unfurl. 

He narrowly escapes it, his own seething. Atsumu feels a hand clench into a tight, closed fist, fingernails leaving remnants of anger on his palm. All at once, Shoyo turns away, and he takes this as an opportunity to tuck it into the waistband of his pocket-less shorts, knuckles white with rage. The choice: to listen or to tear into his own skin. 

This, he discovers, is where he began picking Shoyo apart. Petals slowly unfold in revelation, and Atsumu, ruthless in his observation, plucks them one by one. Hope remains when the _love me nots_ do not cease at this moment. There is yet another layer in Shoyo that ought to bloom, and Atsumu patiently waits for it. Atsumu heeds the work in progress and steps back to let it happen in his midst, for him to take it all in. 

For when he unravels it. For when his chest tightens when he lands on a _loves me_.

Atsumu fails to categorize this moment as either good or bad. It’s just hanging above him. He’s yet to find nomenclature for it.

For now, he waits, gathers all the petals in sight. In spite, he throws the petal meant for Oikawa out the window, leaves it fluttering in the wind.

* * *

It’s nighttime when Atsumu finds himself catching a cold.

Atsumu carries a gym bag, strap slung over his right shoulder, and a plastic bag of _konbini_ food clutched in his left hand. Eyes still in tears over the feeling of being seen by Kita. Of being handed something he did not ask for. Of being fully appreciative.

Atsumu and the way his body stiffens and all at once trembles when Kita claps a hand on his shoulder. All the gymnasium lights are shut off, save for one faulty fluorescent, flickering ruthlessly upon both of them. 

Kita, Atsumu figures, is a man who does not take to hunger kindly. The team, then, is realigned to tend to themselves and their health under Kita’s watchful gaze. 

In the bag: pickled plums, _onigiris,_ a liter of Calpis, hardly anything that could be considered a meal, but enough to fill. Not much could be purchased in _konbinis,_ anyway. Scarcity aside, Kita was gracious enough to bring him something-- _anything_ to devour. 

“It is quite irresponsible to allow your health to take second priority, Atsumu.” Kita, terse in his statement, with eyes focused on the blanket of darkness outside the gymnasium doors, releases his shoulder and walks away. His hand leaves a warm, almost haunting touch on Atsumu. 

More than anything, Kita’s words bear weight upon him than his actual touch. It’s neither reductive nor patronizing, it’s just what it is. 

It doesn’t escape Atsumu that volleyball always takes precedence over his own well-being. His devotion’s so ardent, it’s to a fault. 

This, perhaps, is what beleaguers him and makes him feel held—clarity, no word-mincing, just plain truth. There is depth in his earnestness, a beauty in simplicity, when he leaves snacks and expects them to be eaten. Kita’s voice aches well within Atsumu. He opens his mouth not to retaliate, to say _I know, I know, I”m eating, you’re not my mom, quit it,_ so belligerently, but to say thanks, cheeks flushed and hidden from plain sight. In advance, before he could scuttle towards the nearest bench to wolf down on the plastic bag’s contents, he prays. 

Atsumu ghosts a free palm on the spot, remnants of Kita’s admonition still present. _Thank you for the meal._

* * *

The second time it happens, Shoyo’s already tangled his limbs around Atsumu, under the heat of the duvet, marked by the dappled orange sunlight filtering through the blinds. 

It starts with a _Hey, ‘Tsumu,_ and Shoyo is majestic in his own bareness, refusing to let even an inch of him leave Atsumu’s skin. Hot breaths ghost over Atsumu’s collarbone, and he shivers for a second. 

_Sometimes, I can smell cattleyas on your skin. Like you brought Brazil closer to me._

Atsumu vaguely turns in his direction when Shoyo, bearing toned arms and legs, clutches him tighter.

* * *

Atsumu learns respect in the most mundane of ways.

When Osamu studies a mug for leftover grease and runs it in hot water to rid it of residue, he does it with care. In steady yet quick motions. He’s meticulous, and gently so, when he handles Onigiri Miya’s utensils and kitchenware. Knives put in their proper slots, dried at once after washing. Black wrap bag rolled in two rotations and kept safe in his backpack. Bowls, plates, saucers, all tucked into cupboards. 

Atsumu fails to observe it, but he’s been told: Osamu, when he thinks no one’s there to watch him, bows once before the doorway upon setting foot outside Onigiri Miya. When he rises, he slides the wooden door shut.

Osamu manifests his great respect for the cookware and the grace it brings forth to the table. The restaurant generous enough to house him and his process. Atsumu admires this about his brother. 

Atsumu tries. Once, before he’d shut off all the gym lights, he takes respect for what he does in his own hands and lays it on the court: he smooths a palm over the squeaky hardwood floor, resistant against his touch when his hand skids. _Thank you for the meal,_ in repeated whispers, over the silence of no one but himself—present, still kneeling— _thank you for the meal._ Again and again, until he’s filled to the brim with gratitude. 

* * *

“They’re monsters, the lot of them.” Kita was tight-lipped over their loss and these are the first words to come rolling out of him, unmarked by vengeance or hatred. 

Atsumu props an elbow over the railing, willing his exhausted body to face Kita. There is a newfound wonder in his eyes, a muted but well-defined hunger when they glaze over subtly.

“Look, Atsumu, it’s not as if you’d failed. I know you practiced well and hard for this. Setting a ball against the gym walls a hundred times--a lot of elbow grease needed.” Kita’s calloused hands gently clutch the jacket draped over his shoulders. He tugs on its ends, the rough teeth jutting against his palms, and lets himself be fully blanketed by it. Atsumu stares, and his gaze carries a question unspoken.

“It’s the hunger,” Kita adds. “The reverence they have for what they’re doing, sustained by their desire to be better, do better.” The white of his hair gleams bright with the innumerable fluorescents in the gym. Atsumu could only lean against the railings and marvel at the sight. 

“Don’t you think reverence and desire are mutually exclusive, Kita-san? I can’t see it happening in one sphere,” Osamu interrupts and goes into view, popping up from right behind Kita. It’s always him who asks the questions for Atsumu, when he’s at a loss for words. 

Kita, with all calmness and awe, addresses Osamu kindly.

“Hunger is _exactly_ what keeps them reverent in the art of, Osamu.”

* * *

What Shoyo does not say: 

Pedro, in his own unfeeling isolation, leaving Shoyo to learn Portugese on his own in his first few days in Brazil. _Obrigado_ the first word to come out of his mouth rough and accented, the ‘r’ of it more of an ‘l’ as he sounds it out repeatedly. The way he learns it in his ardent desire to say thanks to Pedro, who wordlessly leaves him a plate of exactly three ground beef _pastel_ pieces on the table, all in cling wrap, readily microwavable. Pedro, who knows just how Shoyo is bound to return to the apartment late after his random games. Sand on his flip-flops, in his cap, the mesh lining of his board shorts, down to his phone. Sand populating his belongings. Sand being the only non-living reminder of his near-obsessive drive to be its master. 

Pedro, whose isolation streak breaks when Shoyo finds him one morning, watering the lone cattleya by the windowsill. 

Oikawa, an apparition in white, standing before him as he rises from his melancholy one unassuming afternoon in Guarujá. 

Chicken _pastel_ in his and in Oikawa’s hands, biting into it a fury to be reckoned with when its filling oozes between the gaps of his teeth and burns his tongue. One too many glasses of _Brahma_ by the seaside, before toppling over straight into Oikawa’s arms. The state of utter surprise, coupled with his exclamations as he puts a firm grip on one of Oikawa’s biceps. The faint reminder of how untouched Oikawa was, and how hands on him was a sensation all too new and real to Shoyo. Oikawa, in a resolute loudness, beckoning him with _chibi-chan._ Oikawa, in his hazy ethereal bout of pleasure, gasping. Beckoning him, deeply, in resounding murmurs: _Shoyo_.

Gasps. Disheveled hair. Bedsheets in disarray. Oikawa rolling his luggage out the door, come early morning. The sweet scent of cattleya. Dappled sunlight filtering through newly-bought blinds. A concession truly made when desire unfolds into the warm afternoon of yesterday—of unspoken promises, of seeing each other again, not knowing when or where.

Oikawa, who fills him with ache as Shoyo drags himself through practice, through the reflection of the moon on the waves, with a non-presence. A missing heat source. 

The stench of wilting cattleya.

* * *

When Shoyo breathes down Atsumu’s neck for the first time, under sheets, there was no name for it. When he nuzzles against the crook of his shoulder and takes short, sharp inhales, Atsumu struggles to categorize the sensation. He unravels Shoyo so wonderfully, the air is filled with nothing but heated, melodic murmurs of _Atsumu._

Atsumu still struggles to find a name for this sensation the morning after, as his own bed is mapped by Shoyo’s body, fast asleep on his sheets, more immaculate than the white of it.

* * *

_Hey, 'Tsumu._ Shoyo spits this out after ridding himself of the prickly mint flavor in his mouth, managing to sidestep as Atsumu comes into the bathroom mirror’s view. He rinses his mouth before speaking again. 

_You remind me of all good things about Brazil._

Atsumu, breaching what Shoyo has found familiar, squints at him through their shared reflection. 

_Hope none of them are about someone else, then._

There exists an extensive file cabinet in his brain for moments like this. Atsumu swears he’s categorized this feeling already. A knife twisting in his gut, a resolute possessiveness. 

It’s probably fondness, but he refuses to consider it. It shouldn’t be _this_ apprehensive.

* * *

What Shoyo _does_ tell him:

How he and Pedro would watch Portugese Dragonball Z on free afternoons, slurping away on his avocado _vitamina_ , cold in his hand. How Shoyo relearns basic manners in Portugese, echoing _obrigado_ each chance he gets. Shoyo and his wild gesturing and heavy Japanese, when he explains to Pedro that he’ll be out late, and him taking Pedro cocking his head to the side as a sign of understanding. 

How sand finds its way even in the skinniest of corners.

Pedro, and the cattleya he’d always tend to, humming _Corcovado_ as he waters it daily, at eight in the morning, on the dot.

Oikawa. 

Oikawa and how he abruptly leaves after prying his melancholy open and tending to it like a long-infected wound. Oikawa, who doesn’t know even a smattering of Portugese, and how he can fluently say _tengo que pensar en mis palabras_ —in sure Spanish. 

(Shoyo blushes faintly at this, and Atsumu looks on, vaguely incensed, when Shoyo sinks his teeth in the small of his bottom lip.)

Oikawa and how Shoyo can’t seem to remember anything beyond hot sand, a worn-down ball in the air, and reddened knuckles from playing with him all day.

* * *

Atsumu gropes for a way to respect Shoyo’s subconscious decision to omit bits and pieces of his life, before he came in the picture. 

This, he reckons, is duly filed under _apprehension_. Of affections untold, floating in the ether.

* * *

It’s a ritual, and Atsumu has made a home out of it. 

_Thank you, thank you endlessly, for the meal._

* * *

_There is no gray—only black or white—_

These words fall into the void when Atsumu witnesses Shoyo’s red-tinged cheeks, brighter under the gymnasium fluorescents.

Air gets knocked out of him and _this_ , he feels, is the heart of Shoyo, in bloom.

Shoyo stops him in the middle of a sentence. They’re on the bleachers, patiently letting everyone leave first, so that they can sneak in sloppy kisses post-shower, in the thick air of the locker rooms, bearing witness only to themselves.

 _Wait, I almost forgot—_ Shoyo rises from his seat and trots towards the court, his sneakers screeching against the glossy hardwood. Like clockwork, he squats and places a firm palm on the white line, head bowed.

At this point, it’s no longer surprising. Atsumu wordlessly jumps up and kneels beside Shoyo, neither of them feeling the need to tilt their heads up.

Atsumu knows no categories when it comes to Shoyo. He refuses the downright reduction of his being into things he’d file under certain labels. Shoyo takes a quick look at him, and Atsumu’s immediately arrested. There is no name for this. 

He learns that history goes hand-in-hand with Shoyo’s taintless reverence, learns that Brazil isn’t at all the same as Japan, learns the way Shoyo’s lips taste sober, in familiarized corners.

As Bokuto chats Sakusa’s ear off, as Shion slams his locker door closed, Atsumu and Shoyo create a ritual of their own.

 _Thank you for the meal,_ in unison, as they’re sated. 

**Author's Note:**

> SO yOU’VE REACHED THE END—
> 
> A few notes:  
> 1\. [A Wikipedia article on Cattleyas.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cattleya)  
> 2\. [Another Wikipedia article on pastel (the empanada-like squares).](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pastel_\(food\)) They’re actually pretty yummy.  
> 3\. _tengo que pensar en mis palabras_ , roughly translated, is “I have to think about my words.”  
> 4\. And the above-mentioned Spanish statement came from Daniela Andrade’s “[Ayayai](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BS9gIOMSv-k).”  
> 5\. _Brahma_ is a Brazilian beer!  
> 6\. [This](https://youtu.be/Uh9e3V1oLYk) is the tune that Pedro hums to himself while tending to the cattleya. RIP, João Gilberto. 
> 
> I've my lovely friends [Pau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sjpyeongpyeong) and [Ileana](http://twitter.com/alafrise) to thank for endless volleyball-related and kitchen-related conversations. And for being ~~un~~ willing beta-readers.
> 
> Pls don’t hesitate to leave concrit if you feel like doing so! Lmk your thoughts on this fic! 
> 
> Or, you know, you can also talk to me on Twitter.


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